


you swallow my heart and flee, but i want it back now, baby

by Duckyboos



Series: i only come when you scream [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, BAMF Sam Winchester, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mentions Of Infidelity, Murder, Murder Husbands, Obsession, Public Hand Jobs, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killer Sam Winchester, Serial Killers, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 09:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13679355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean just wants an apology.





	you swallow my heart and flee, but i want it back now, baby

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have some horrible romance. (Happy Valentine's <3)

If ever there was a moment when Dean had any hope of stopping this before it had a chance to get started again, it’s been set alight and burned to the fucking ground. And then the ashes have been scattered to the four winds.

“Cas,  _ fuck _ .” He moans thickly, lust welling up in him like fresh blood from a wound, head coming into rough contact with the uneven brickwork, spreading his legs as wide around his husband’s thick thigh as the restraint of his jeans will let him.

Castiel takes it for the engraved invitation that it is and surges against Dean, pressing him into the alley wall, hot, hard line of his body everything Dean has ever wanted and never dared to hope he’d get to have again. Because that’s the truth of it right there. He’s never stopped wanting Cas, even when he’s hated his husband, wanted to kill him, not cared if he ever saw him again. He doesn’t know if this fucked up obsession that they have with each other (because Dean’s not the only one who bought stock and shares in this little shit-show) is because of who Cas is, of who Dean is, or some kind of sick combination of the two. All he knows is that when they’re together - fighting, fucking, killing,  _ whatever _ \- there’s romance and fire and a knife-edge of pleasure so intense that Dean knew from the very first time that nothing else would ever come close.

It’s everything, it’s absolutely fucking  _ everything _ .

“Dean,” Cas’s voice dips down into that place that they both know is nothing but trouble and dirty-hot want, and Dean’s arching into Cas’s bruising grip on his hips automatically, like the years mean nothing, and Castiel’s mouth descends on Dean’s neck, and it’s not just whisky responsible for the heat in Dean’s veins anymore.

It doesn’t even matter that this is exactly what the bastard wanted when he first dumped that ballet dancer in Dean’s lawn chair. Well. it matters a  _ little _ , because if Cas thinks that Dean’s gonna let it go, then--

“--Fuck.”

Castiel grinds forward, sinking his teeth into Dean’s skin like he knows what Dean’s thinking and Dean swears he can feel Cas’ smirk against the wet-hot bruise he leaves in the dip of Dean’s throat.

Asshole.

“Kiss me, fucker.” Dean demands, jerking Castiel into a passionate, overwhelming kiss, mouths pressed together, lips dragging wetly between teasing scrapes of teeth and presses of tongue. Dean slips a hand between the tight crush of their bodies, yanking Cas’ fly open, palming the thick length of his cock until it fills his hand. Dean squeezes gently, reacquainting himself with the heft, the ridges of veins, warm and alive and  _ right fucking here _ , where he should always be, where he never should have left.

“Dean,” Cas pants against Dean’s kiss-swollen lips, voice strained, hot with arousal. “ _ Dean _ ,” and then he’s pulling away enough to talk without the risk of immediately reattaching himself to Dean's mouth.

Dean’s barely listening, too focussed on the man in front of him, like if he looks away, he’ll miss something vital. Like now - how the blue of his eyes is nearly black, pupils completely blown; hair all fucked up from Dean’s fingers, shirt rucked halfway up the flat plane of his stomach, and those hip bones, fuck--

_ Goddamn _ , he’s gorgeous. Gorgeous, but lethal.

Dean’s expecting a ‘let’s go back to mine’ or ‘should we get a cab so that we can continue this somewhere that isn’t going to send one of us back to jail’, but Cas - this generation’s answer to Allen Funt (except with one very important shift in the consonant department) - opens his beautiful, big stupid mouth and says instead, “Are you clean?”

What.

Fucking  _ what _ .

Dean immediately wants to be flippant. Wants to diffuse the situation in the best way he knows how; with a little Dean Winchester sarcasm. Wants to say that yeah, he had a shower before he came out for their date, and despite the general filthiness of this alley and Cas’ best intentions, he's remained unsoiled, but he can’t. He just can’t do it.

The tiny prick of accusation stings far more than it should and blood blooms under Dean’s skin, spreading like an infection.

“What do you mean ‘ _ am I clean _ ’?” He asks, for good measure, one palm over Cas’s thumping heart, other palm  _ around  _ another of Cas’ throbbing vital organs, hoping against hope that Cas isn't dumb enough to ask the same question twice.

Which as it goes, he’s not. Instead, Cas simply raises an eyebrow that says: ‘ _ Don't act so innocent, Dean. We both know you've been in more beds than a gardener's spade _ ’ and Dean is already plotting his husband’s untimely demise and wondering just how good he’d look in widower’s black lace.

If it’s half as good as he looks in pink satin, then his day is already on the up.

“--really, Cas?” Dean asks, incredulous. “With your dick in my hand, that’s what you’re going with?”

There’s a whisper of  _ something _ behind those baby blues as Castiel briefly seems to realize his mistake, before he’s doubling down, possibly figuring that if Deans going to do a Bobbitt-with-his-bare-hands anyway at this point, he may as well go all in. Make sure he gets the job done right and bleeds out. “You think I don't know what you've been up-to while I was inside?”

“Yeah, Cas.” Dean says sweetly, incongruous with the way he roughly swipes the pad of his thumb over the sensitive slit of his husband's dick, smearing wetness over the head, enjoying the way Cas’ body responds the same way it always has. “That's exactly what I think. ‘Cause it sounds to me like you’re under the impression that I’ve been slutting it around. Like the institution of marriage means nothing to me. Like our agreement means nothing to me. Like  _ you _ mean nothing to me.”

It’s an admission and a fairly hefty one at that.

And yeah, so maybe Dean went a little wild after Cas got locked up. As in he drank too much and went on a six month killing spree that would make the Zodiac proud. He certainly didn’t fall dick first into every woman, or dude (‘cause Dean is  _ all _ about equal opportunities), as soon as Cas was behind bars.

But. That said, nor was he completely abstinent. (C’mon, it’s not like he claimed to be a saint or anything, right? Oh. Shit. Yeah. Well. Even saints have to get some from time to time.)

Firstly: “I slept with three people in nearly six years, Cas. All of whom you already know about.” And whom Cas made sure Dean regretted. The fucking dancer for one.

Jesus Christ. It was  _ one time. _

Dean releases Cas’ dick before he does something  _ else  _ he’ll regret. ‘Cause in fairness, Cas has a magnificent cock. It'd be a shame to destroy something so beautiful, even if its owner is the biggest douche-canoe going. He manages to step back, pulls a deep calming breath down into his lungs; one stupid comment away from no longer daydreaming about the most inventive way to kill his husband and just going with whatever feels natural.

Secondly: “I've never gone bare with anyone, but you.”

“Shit.” Cas murmurs, voice thinner than Dean’s ever heard it, missing the usual gravitas, and Dean takes a moment to revel in being able to knock the bastard off-guard, but when he doesn’t follow it up with anything more substantial - like a goddamn apology - Dean, with determination he wasn’t aware he possessed, is turning away, walking away and it never gets any goddamn easier, no matter which one of them is doing the leaving.

  
  


***

 

There's another body in his lawn chair.

This time it’s a guy. He’s wearing a purple shirt embroidered with the ‘ _ Back To The Fuchsia _ ’ logo across the left breast, and he’s holding his heart in his hands.

Because why say it with flowers when you can say it with florists?

Sam’s standing barefoot on the veranda next to Dean, hair bundled into a hipster top-knot, eating one of those protein-breakfast-cereal-bar things, chewing aggressively, and it’s such a ridiculous sight that Dean almost forgets his annoyance with the other serial murderer in his life. At least until Sam asks, “Is this going to be a regular occurrence or something?”

On the upside, there’s no blood. Cas must have been up all night draining the poor dude.

“Only when he fucks up.” Dean mutters, rolling his shoulders in an attempt to get rid of the crick in his neck (from where he definitely hadn’t fallen asleep on the couch watching shitty B-movies). “So, yeah. At least two a week.” He pours the remnants of his coffee onto the lawn, and says in a very clear, calm voice, to no-one in particular. “I don’t accept your apology and if this isn't gone by the time I get back from the store then I'm gonna be calling the cops and telling them about a little piece of the Swan Lake Strangler's MO that they've likely missed.”

It's an empty threat, but still.

The body is gone when he gets back from the hardware store a few hours later.

  
  


***

 

The next morning, Dean’s barely able to avoid snorting a laugh into his coffee as he sits in his blissfully empty seat. Because, instead, there’s a corpse with her throat cut in  _ Sam’s _ wicker chair, and Sam’s staring at Dean like  _ he’s _ the crazy one.

Maybe he is; he might have to concede that measuring his scale of sanity off of Cas isn’t a large enough sample.

“You’re no fun.” Dean mutters through a mouthful of bagel. He swallows and then to his husband, wherever the fuck he is, he adds, “Points for creativity. But the answer’s still ‘go fuck yourself.’”

He has a bit of recon to do today. By the time he gets back, the body has been removed.

  
  


***

 

The day after, there's a knock at the door instead of a body in a chair and Dean’s infinitely glad that today’s episode of the Clue remake has been rescheduled. Unless it’s a singing telegram and Dean is obligated to shoot them.

Sam beats him to it though (the door, not shooting someone on their porch; ‘cause that’s just serial killer 101 - no killing on your porch in broad daylight - cops’ll be all over that shit). Which is mostly because Dean doesn’t bother himself with getting up. Like fuck is he going anywhere when it’s this good outside; soft breeze and mild morning sunshine. His coffee is divine, even if he says so himself, and he’s planning an excellent handjob and kill later. Not necessarily in that order.

He purposely won’t be thinking about that arrogant blue-eyed fuck either.

Perfect start to a perfect day.

According to today's paper, a florist from Brentwood was found dead in an alley in Santa Monica. Police aren't linking it to the Swan Lake Strangler, but they won't rule out the possibility of another killer operating in the area. Something which the paper goes to great lengths to remind the public, is extremely rare.

Three then, must surely be an abomination. A sign of the end times.

The door rumbles on the runners behind him and then there's the creak of ill-fitting crocs on the veranda.

God, Dean hopes so. He could about use some (very) localized fire and brimstone right now.

“Dean,” Sam's directly behind him, tone of voice all Donna-Reed-hand-wringy-1960s-housewife and Dean’s about to ask what's got his panties in a bunch, when the mystery solves itself by stepping forward into Dean’s field of vision.

The aforementioned arrogant blue-eyed fuck.

“I'll err… leave you guys alone.” Sam tries to play it cool, but it's something he's never been, not since he brought a  _ Magic: The Gathering  _ starter pack home and demanded that he and Dean play it unironically. “I'll make a run to the farmer’s market. You need anything, Dean?”

Case in point.

“Sure, Sammy.” Dean says, affecting a casual tone, as he flips to the next page of the paper, “Get me some kale.”

“Really?”

It's more sceptical than hopeful, but the mere fact that he needs to ask is in itself worthy of Dean’s mockery.

“Yep. Otherwise what am I going to have in my kale and fucknut squash ravioli? I can't put spinach in there, ‘cause  _ goddammit _ , it just won’t taste of the right kind of nothingness that I really need today.”

A world-weary sigh, teamed most likely with BF no. 13. A timeless classic. “Oh fuck you, Dean.”

Dean simply raises a hand in acknowledgement, calls out, “Have fun, little brother. Don't buy the place out of all the wholewheat pasta.”

He can almost  _ hear _ the flounce as Sam squeaks his way into the house and Dean very nearly tacks on a hilarious comment about Spongebob Squarepants, but doesn’t. He’s gotta save some of this A-grade material for later.

Dean continues to pretend like Cas’ presence isn’t making his skin itch as he doesn’t read the newspaper, but does a pretty admirable job of faking it.

(Something he’s not ever had to do with Cas, but ironically did with the dancer. That’s the real song Alanis should have written).

“Y’know,” Cas says eventually, a couple of tense moments after the front door slams. “With such a caustic personality, we could market you as a moderately more environmentally friendly version of lye.”

Dean deliberately doesn't tear his gaze away from the paper, even though he’s skim-read the same quaint story about a cat rescued from a drain seven or eight times now. (What can he say? He’s a sucker for the cute animal stories. Not so much for the fiscal drama of some CEO). He can't look at Cas directly or he’ll fold like a tapped-out father of four at a poker game in Vegas. “What are you doing here? It can’t be because you’ve run out of people to kill in L.A.”

There's a heartfelt sigh, all Harlequin romance, but without any of that ‘love is patient, love is kind’ shit. Then the paper is getting torn out of his grip and tossed somewhere across the yard, coming apart and falling like fucking confetti, and Cas is suddenly  _ there _ , fingertips bleeding white as he grips the plastic armrests of Dean's chair, caging him in, and he leans down, right into Dean and his space. He smells so good and looks better, and it’s making something unravel in Dean’s chest. “Babe. If you don’t know by now that there's nothing in this world or the next that’s gonna keep me away from you, then I don’t know what to tell you.”

Cas has always been hot like fire, the most dangerously beautiful thing Dean's ever seen and it hits him now in the worst-best way, as he looks up at his husband through sooty lashes, deliberately seductive. They burn each other in this mess that they've created together, nothing but violent-want and a treacherous heartbeat between them.

What Dean  _ wants  _ to say and what Dean  _ should  _ say are two very different things entirely. Instead he splits the difference and goes with, “Sure you do. You can  _ tell _ me that you're sorry for being an ass, instead of sending others to do your dirty work.” Though, he’s kinda proud of himself all the same.

Castiel barely has to move, barely even blinks, agonizing sincerity written in every line of his perfect,  _ stupid  _ face making Dean’s heart skip over unnecessary beats. “I’m sorry for being an ass,” he whispers, closing the scant inches between them for a taste of Dean’s mouth.

And Dean's only human, albeit a very fucked up one, so he melts into the kiss, hands reaching up to grip at the lapels of Cas' leather jacket.  Of course, it’s only a few short moments before it all gets out of hand - an allegory for their entire relationship - and Dean’s being dragged up and out of his chair, Cas’ hands - fuck,  _ his hands _ \- all over him, in his hair, on his neck, on his ass, everywhere, like he’s been waiting for this as long as Dean has.

“I’m not that easy, y’know.” Dean pants between kisses, ignoring the part of his brain that’s telling him how he’s providing evidence to the contrary here.

Cas’s smile is wry when he replies, “So I’ve heard.”


End file.
